by Logan, Jake
“Some of those men could barely walk,” Slocum said as he thought about the damage that had been done to the hunting party. “And how many are still feeling headaches from last night’s party?”
Snake Catcher didn’t answer, but obviously wasn’t pleased with what came to mind.
Slocum slithered on his belly all the way to the edge of the ridge. As he sighted along the top of his barrel, he was able to pick out the sources of the shots. “I only see two of them. Is that all there is?”
“I don’t know. The shooting just started.”
And then it all snapped into focus. Slocum knew what was going on, and all he had to do was utilize an old Indian saying that told him the best way to know a man was to walk a mile in his moccasins. Without hesitating long enough to second-guess himself, Slocum stood up and waved his hat in the air while shouting, “Hey, assholes! Remember me?”
The two gunmen in the trees below poked their heads out for a moment and shifted their aim to the top of the ridge. Slocum dropped down hard enough to knock some of the wind from his lungs, which didn’t keep him from rolling onto his belly so he could once again rest the Winchester upon the rocks in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Snake Catcher asked. “I need them to stay still long enough for me to attack from the side.”
Shots hissed inches above Slocum’s head. He fired once in the general direction of the trees, which was intended only to give him enough breathing room to aim the next round. “I know what I’m doing,” he said to the angry Apache.
“It was foolish for me to hunt with a white man. You know only how to pull a trigger.”
“That’s right,” Slocum replied as he fired again. One shot punched through a tree being used by one of the gunmen for cover and the next clipped the man who hopped away from the spot that had just been targeted. It wasn’t a killing blow, but enough to quiet that shooter down for a moment or two. “Keep that shooting business in mind because that’s what’s gonna help us catch some real big snakes.”
The Apache wasn’t in good humor at the start, and hearing the play of words involving his name didn’t help matters.
Karl groaned after being clipped by the Winchester’s bullet, tried to stay on his feet, wobbled, and then fell over like a sack of potatoes. “God damn!” he wailed when his backside hit the rocky soil.
Taking a moment to reload his Sharps rifle, Young glanced down at the larger man and said, “I told you to stay behind cover.”
“That round cut through this tree like it was butter! What the hell do you expect me to do?”
“Stick yer nose out like a damned fool! That makes perfect sense.”
“That’s John Slocum up on that ridge. I seen him with my own eyes.”
“Now all we gotta do is to kill him,” Young said as he dropped to one knee so he could fire up at the ridge. “We take him out first and then all we got to deal with is a bunch of wounded, drunken Indians. From all the blood we found, I’d wager these that came out to greet us now are the only men we got to worry about.” He fired and then quickly picked out a different target. The Apache who had been approaching from the west had made it to within six paces of the outlaws, but stood up to charge when he knew he’d been spotted. He made it halfway to Young’s position and was stopped dead by a bullet that hit him squarely in the chest. Still bringing his rifle around, Young looked back at his partner and said, “Much obliged.”
Karl held his smoking .44 in a steady hand when something behind him hissed. His head snapped forward and his eyes rolled up into their sockets. After a quiet moment, the bigger man slumped over to reveal the arrow sticking out of the back of his skull.
“God damn savages!” Young shouted as he pivoted around with the rifle braced against his shoulder. More shots continued to rain down from the ridge, but he was more interested in the solitary figure hunched over a stump while notching another arrow into his bow. Young sighted along the top of his Sharps and fired. The Apache archer yelped and was spun to the side by the impact of the bullet. Before he could fall, Young put another round into him. The Apache hit the ground in a heap and didn’t move again.
A piercing whistle sounded from the top of the ridge to catch Young’s attention. The rifleman fired toward Slocum’s silhouette, only to kick up sparks as the bullet chipped some rocks. Something rustled behind him and the only thing Young saw when he turned around was the angry snarl on Flying Spear’s face as the Apache rushed at him with his tomahawk in hand.
Jack and Imala stood in the chief’s teepee as Gopan rooted through a small pouch. “Hurry up and hand over that key,” Jack said urgently. “We don’t have all day!”
Imala hissed a warning at him in her own tongue. Jack didn’t need to understand the woman’s language to know she didn’t appreciate anyone speaking to the chief of her people like that. Although Jack bit his tongue, he stuck out his hand and shook it impatiently as if that would make the key appear in his grasp any faster.
“That’s right, old man,” Dan said as he stepped into the teepee and drew the flap shut behind him. “We are in a bit of a rush.” He already had his pistol drawn and pointed so he could hit Jack or either of the two Apache with the same amount of effort. “And don’t waste a thought on what Slocum’s doing. Him and the rest of the redskins will be too busy slaughtering the boys I brought along with me. I’m guessing my men will thin out your herd, too,” he said to the chief, “so you might as well hand over the key.”
Gopan turned the pouch over so the key fell heavily to the ground. He then stood and glared silently at the outlaw without making another move.
“Kick it over,” Dan said.
The chief remained as still as a boulder. He didn’t even flinch when Dan pulled his trigger to put a round through his heart. Gopan silently fell.
“I’m in a hurry,” Dan snarled. “Since you folks ain’t feeling cooperative, I’ll do my own damn work.” He started moving toward the spot where the key had landed, but couldn’t take half a step before he was stopped by a grip that tightened around his shoulder and pulled him back toward the tent’s entrance.
“Drop the gun,” Slocum snarled from directly behind the outlaw.
Dan couldn’t move more than a fraction of an inch in any direction because of the arm that had snaked around his neck from behind. As the grip cinched in tight enough to cut the flow of blood through the arteries on either side of his throat, Dan allowed his gun arm to dangle at his side.
Pressing the barrel of his Schofield even harder into the outlaw’s backbone, Slocum growled, “I said drop it!”
Still hanging on to his pistol, Dan smirked while eyeing the key on the ground in front of him. “I know the sort of man you are, Slocum. You ain’t about to shoot someone in the back after you already got the drop on him.”
“And you’re the sort of man who throws his own partners to the wolves just to distract these Apache long enough for you to sneak in and gun down an unarmed old man.”
“Yeah, but that’s me. Not you.”
Jack knew Slocum well enough to become increasingly uncomfortable with the standoff that had developed.
“Maybe you’re right,” Slocum said. Then, he shoved Dan farther into the teepee while spinning him around.
The outlaw stopped just shy of tripping over the circle of rocks that had contained the previous night’s fire, grabbed for the key, and snapped his arm up to put his gun to work.
Slocum fired from the hip. His eyes had been fixed so intently on his target that there wasn’t a doubt in his mind he would hit it. Dan took half a step back, coughed up some blood, and kept struggling to raise his gun. When it seemed as if the outlaw might actually dredge up enough strength to pull his trigger, Slocum put him down with as much ceremony as he would have killed a rabid dog. In the end, that was all the murdering son of a bitch deserved.
By the time Slocum had taken away Dan’s pistol and Jack reclaimed his key, Ilesh peeked inside the teepee to ask, “Is it safe to come in?”<
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Imala rushed over to the shaman with tears streaming down her face as she explained what happened in a sobbing rush. Slocum told him, “He was shot before I could get here. I’m sorry.”
“Did he die like a warrior?” Snake Catcher asked as he moved past the elder. He still wore Slocum’s hat after putting it on to distract Dan’s boys, but when he saw the chief’s body, he couldn’t take it off fast enough.
“Damn near spat his last breath into his killer’s face,” Slocum said.
Ilesh nodded solemnly. “Then there is no reason to be sorry.”
Looking at Snake Catcher, Slocum asked, “I take it you passed for me up on that ridge long enough to get the job done?”
Snake Catcher knelt beside his chief and spoke in a voice that was drawn tighter than a bowstring. “The other two white men are dead. Flying Spear and one of the wounded scouts rode out to make sure no more are coming.”
“That’s a good idea. Your tribe might want to find a new camp, all the same.”
The shaman nodded. “Yes. Too much blood has been spilled here for no good reason. You stood tall to protect us, John Slocum, but I will still ask you and Jack Halsey to leave.”
Slocum nodded respectfully. “I understand.” He placed his hat upon his head and said, “We’ll go. There’s just one thing I ask as a favor.”
“You have done much for my people,” Snake Catcher told him. “If there is something I can do for you, tell me what it is.”
“That gray wolf that was killed,” Slocum replied. “Did you bring it back to the camp?”
“Yes.”
“I could use a piece of its hide.”
“Take the whole thing,” Snake Catcher told him. “Wear it with pride.”
“I will, but that old dog is going to be more use than that.”
20
ONE WEEK LATER
The stretch of land was a lonely tract of sand-blasted clay on the bank of a dried-up riverbed six miles north of the Mexican border. Jack insisted there had been water flowing past the old graveyard the last time he’d seen it, but there wasn’t even a hint of it now. After passing the bleached wooden crosses leaning in the battered patch of earth where they’d been planted, the two men rode for another quarter mile and then came to a stop.
Since he was the one to signal for them to halt, Jack was first to climb down from his horse. “This is it!” he said anxiously. “I can feel it!”
“That’s what you said about the last two places we stopped,” Slocum groaned.
“And you accuse me of bellyaching. This is the place. The last one was just a graveyard. The one before that was a riverbed with part of a graveyard nearby.”
“There were some twigs stuck in the dirt at odd angles. They weren’t markers and that wasn’t a damn graveyard.”
“Well, what we just passed is a graveyard and this,” Jack said while pointing down to a spot where the ground had been smoothed out by a stream that was as dead as the men planted in the distance, “is the spot my uncle used to take me to catch lizards.”
“Then get to digging.”
As Jack hunkered down and used a small shovel to chip away at the scorched ground, two riders thundered through the graveyard without the slightest bit of respect shown to those who still rested there. Without looking up from what he was doing, Jack asked, “They still following us?”
“Yep.”
“Want me to lend a hand when they get here?”
“Just be ready and for the love of all that’s holy . . .”
“I know, I know. I’ll keep my damn mouth shut.”
Slocum stood his ground as the two men rode toward him. One of them drew his horse to a stop about fifty yards away while the other kept coming until he was close enough for Slocum to see the sweat glistening off of his smooth, olive-colored skin.
“I’m Salvatore Majesco,” the Italian man announced.
“What’s that to me?”
“Nothing, Mr. Slocum, but I imagine the name may mean something to the nephew of Diamondback Halsey.”
“Diamondback?” Slocum asked as he cast half a glance at Jack. “Was your uncle dangerous enough to be named after a rattler?”
When Jack didn’t respond, Salvatore explained, “Not hardly. One of his first jobs looking after stolen property was for a gang that stole a shipment of diamonds from a safe in San Antonio. The law as well as a few bounty hunters tried to locate the gems while the gang was in prison. When he was released, the gang’s leader said that Halsey sat on the diamonds so well for so long that they must have become lodged up his . . . well . . . I’m sure you see where that is headed.”
“Yeah,” Slocum said. “I see. What is it you want from us that’s important enough for you to have been dogging our tails for three days?”
“I was one of Diamondback’s last clients. Whatever money you are trying to claim rightfully belongs to me.”
“We don’t even know if this is the spot.”
“Mr. Halsey seems fairly excited,” Salvatore said. “He’s convinced this is the spot.”
“Jack gets excited about a lot of things. Why don’t you men mosey along and leave us alone? Diamondback is dead, and whatever you did to earn the money you gave him, I’m sure it doesn’t entitle you to a piece of whatever he’s worth now that he’s gone. Easy come, easy go, right?”
Salvatore’s face was cordial without being friendly. “No, Mr. Slocum,” he said through a snakelike smile. “I went through a lot of trouble to get here. I will most definitely not easily go.”
“How’d you even know about my inheritance?” Jack asked.
“At the end of his life, your uncle became very sloppy,” the Italian explained. “That is what got him killed. Many of his customers found out about what he stole, but none of them thought it was worth the trouble of coming to claim it.”
“And you’re different, huh?” Nodding toward the man who still sat fifty yards away, Slocum asked, “That why you hired a bunch of gunhands to back you? Because you figured it would be worth the trouble?”
“Diamondback Halsey saw a lot of money and valuables pass through his hands,” Salvatore said. “I imagine he stashed away enough to live rather comfortably.”
Slocum studied the Italian carefully and made sure Salvatore knew he was doing it. “I may not be a rich man, but I seen enough of them to spot one from a mile away. In this situation, a rich man would have ridden up with at least four or five gunmen in his company. You brought one. You’re not a dangerous man either, because that gun belt you’re wearing is more for looks than anything else. You obviously used Jack’s uncle’s services quite a bit, which means you’re probably a thief who didn’t have the guts to face down a posse and would rather hand his ill-gotten gains to an old man instead of fighting to keep it where you can see it.”
“Don’t test me, Mr. Slocum.”
“Or what? You’ll send some killers after me? You already took your shot where that was concerned and it didn’t turn out too well.” Slocum reached into his jacket pocket, which caused the man in the distance to lever a round into the rifle he was carrying.
“Easy, Zack,” Salvatore shouted.
Slocum went easy as well. Although the ride to that particular riverbed took longer than he’d anticipated, it had given him plenty of time to cut off a strip of the wolf’s pelt the Apache had given him and shave it down so the fur looked less like an animal’s coat and more like long, gray stubble sprouting from a piece of tattered skin at irregular intervals. Some cutting here, some trimming there, and the piece looked just rough enough to serve its purpose. It was a lot of trouble to go through when the Apache may have been just as happy to give him the real item, but carrying another man’s scalp was a bit out of Slocum’s range no matter who that man was. He tossed the strip of skin over to Salvatore and said, “That’s what’s left of the killers you sent after us. Had some help from the Apache, but I think I picked up enough tips to learn how to scalp a man on my own next time.”
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sp; Having caught the leathery strip without knowing what to make of it, Salvatore looked down at it with wide eyes and threw it to the ground. “Jesus Christ! You scalped him?”
“According to what Jack told me, the smart money was on there being someone behind those three killers who’d hired them to chase after us. I figured whoever hired them might like to know what they got for their money. Now, unless that rifleman out there is better than all of those other gunmen combined, I’d say you should both mosey along and leave us to our business.”
Salvatore looked down at the strip of hairy skin as if he were afraid it would jump up and bite his horse. He then tugged on his reins to ride back toward the graveyard. “Come on, Zack,” he announced as if he was making a royal decree. “We’re through here.”
The rifleman stayed put until his employer rode to his side.
“You really think they’ll just leave?” Jack whispered.
Slocum watched the two men converse between themselves and said, “If they had the stomach for a fair fight, they wouldn’t have hired them other three in the first place.”
Sure enough, Slocum watched both men ride away as Jack continued to dig. About two hours later, there were several freshly made holes in the dry ground. The final one clanged when Jack drove his shovel into it. “Found it!” he declared.
After so much anticipation, Slocum had become genuinely excited to see what the dead old-timer had left behind.
“You stuck with me through this whole thing,” Jack said breathlessly while using his fingers to scrape at the dirt to reveal the edges of a dented metal container only slightly bigger than a cigar box. “I’m cutting you in for a percentage as well as your additional fee for coming all this way with me. How’s five percent of what’s in here sound?”
“If that’s what you think is fair for getting you this far in one piece.”
Glancing nervously at the discarded piece of wolf skin as if it truly were the scalp of Slocum’s enemy, he said, “You’re right. Ten percent’s more fair. Now let’s see how rich we’re all gonna be!”